Travels With Angels In Search of America
by Lassroyale
Summary: In which the big showdown leaves the Winchesters with more questions than answers and God sends Castiel on a road trip across the U.S to see the world’s largest chocolate moose. Sam and Dean might just discover there's more to life than hunting.
1. Chapter One: The Four Corners Monument

**The Four Corners Monument, Four Corners, United States – 7:43AM, Mountain Standard Time**

_The world is filled the essence of death. The rain is dry - ash and cinder, the blackened cast-off of a toxic blizzard. It's early, still morning. Somewhere in the tar-thick darkness the sun crawls blindly along its path. The air is poison. A single breath makes the lungs sootier than a mineworker of twenty-some years._Cooked flesh, mine—no, Jimmy's. Charred to perfection._ The flame fattens and coils, licking a hot stripe across everything it touches. It makes Castiel aware of the heat in a way he would not have been were he not bound to his vessel's flesh and bones._I can taste your souls in my lungs. I'll pray for you. _The demons writhe in the flames: wild, free, flowing around each other, through each other. It is a bacchanalian dance set to the music of howls and screams. They draw vitality from death, inhaling the ash that is to them the cleanest of air._To who? To me?_ Even so, his very nature seeks to join his brothers' and sisters' war song. _Come brother, come sister! To victory we march!Dean's_ fingernails. _Dean's_ fingers._So many, so many, here, and here, and broken, broken, broken.I've gotten used to Jimmy's voice, my voice, his voice… Mine._ He presses his lips to Dean's ear and whispers desperately. "Please, Dean, wake up." Part of him is shocked to see that his vessel's hands tremble, as he clutches Dean's broken body against him. Part of him is not._Please wake up, you need to wake up._ He lifts his head and looks again at Dean's slack, bruised face. "Please," Castiel whispers. "Please, Dean."_I need you.

Castiel sticks out his tongue, tasting soot and the aftertaste of cooked flesh. It coats the inside of his mouth, already damp with blood, his lips cracked and scorched by the heat that washed across the landscape moments ago when Hellfire burst forth from the earth and lashed out at anyone unfortunate enough to bear witness.

Hellfire continues to spout from the cracked Four Corners Monument, a geyser of flame miles high. It licks at the air, a burning tongue that bubbles his vessel's flesh whenever he draws too near.

From as far as the eye can see, demon-possessed bodies converged on the Four Corners monument, carrying the souls of the innocent with them. Like a river, the demons cast themselves into the Hellfire - vessels cast aside, burned away to ash. Castiel can feel the souls of the innocents beneath the demons' malice; scared, shriveled things that scream as they're burned away in the Hellfire. Briefly, he feels regret for the souls that the demons have taken and destroyed.

And in the center of it all, his fingers sliding through the fire, is the piper of the damned: Lucifer, wearing Sam Winchester's skin.

Lucifer's laughter is a demented soundtrack in the background, a hum in Castiel's ears that means little as he searches through the rubble of the destroyed Four Corners monument with a single goal: Find Dean. He searches, looking for that needle in the haystack; steadfast, though urgent. The light of his Grace streams through the cracks of his skin in response to Lucifer's presence. His back itches; he wishes to fight.

Castiel keeps searching, knuckles white, hands cramped into fists.

He can't risk shedding Jimmy Novak's skin and revealing his true form. He can't risk drawing Lucifer's attention, currently occupied by the twists of light that spiral down from a sudden opening in the darkness. Angels, their true forms signatures of awesome energy that resonates in their own key, streak towards the ground, falling stars with teeth and razor-sharp wings.

Part of Castiel sings out, notes struck along each of his ribs, responding the call to arms. He ignores it, though it pains him to do so. Finding Dean is simply more important.

The angels streak towards Lucifer and crash against the demons surrounding him in a coalescence of darkness and light. They fuse together into indistinguishable shapes and forms, slide apart, Hellfire and Holy Light, oil and water.

Castiel keeps searching through the rubble with persistent single-mindedness, looking for Dean, a hunter in a sooty coat torn and hanging off him in strips, singed around the hem, blackened by soot and debris.

He sees what he's searching for when he stumbles over his own feet, his slowly fracturing self-control and the pull to battle dragging him in too many directions at once. A ragged cry escapes him, yanked from the bottom of his chest, when he sees the bit of bone and flesh sticking up through the dirt – part of a hand. The fingernails are broken and bloodied, fingers twisted and bent.

Castiel pulls himself atop the rubble and begins digging through dirt and stone, his bare hands turned into shovels that tear and bleed. His vessel's flesh rips in strips. The nails of his fingers crack and split off. His palms sting, the rapidly appearing cuts soon gritty with blood and sand.

He smells Dean's burnt flesh in his nostrils. He feels Dean's pain in his soul. Castiel keeps digging.

His hands seem heavy and clumsy, knuckles too swollen, palms too slick, but Castiel manages to move enough dirt and broken concrete to grasp Dean's arm in one hand. He pulls. Dean is dead weight, but Castiel pulls him from the earth with ease as if Dean's nothing but skin and hollow bones. His face is littered with cuts and bruises that mar his features in red, black, and blue. Castiel cradles him gingerly, soft and gentle, as he catalogs Dean's numerous injuries with a light graze of bloody fingers across his body. He smears crimson across Dean's cheek, a stripe of ink bleeding off the pages of a wrecked tome.

"Dean," he says. His voice is an urgent hum, smothered by the sounds of open war that swirl around them. An explosion rocks the air, sending shock waves of energy outwards for miles. Beneath the explosion is the sound of broken glass. There is discordance in the song. An angel has fallen.

Shards of broken Grace, sharp as needles and hotter than lava, rain down as the angel is dispersed by the demon horde. Castiel barely notices. His attention is solely for Dean, lying in his arms, as limp and lifeless as a ragdoll. Right now, his world holds nothing else, though the battle rages on.

"DEAN!" Castiel yells this time, his true voice coating the human vocal chords of his vessel. His speech is warped, a tuning fork dipped in liquid silver and struck against granite, more his own and not his own all at once.

A buzz rumbles beneath the burnt desert landscape, barely noticeable at first, covered by the cacophony of the battle. It grows stronger, until Castiel is not the only one to notice it. A murmur runs through the angelic song even as the demons loose a single, long yowl of anticipation.

Lucifer has called Beelzebub to him – his Chief Lieutenant, one of the princes of Hell. Without Michael here the battle could easily turn in the demons' favor, but Castiel can't seem to bring himself to care. Not when Dean is lying broken in his arms and won't wake up.

Castiel presses his face into Dean's neck. His lips move, tattooing a prayer against Dean's skin.

Dean opens his eyes.


	2. Chapter Two: Little Pine Truck Stop

**The Little Pine Truck Stop – Home of Henry the Bear, Mitchell, OR – 11:08AM, Pacific Standard Time**

_Total miles traveled: 0 _

Dean doesn't know why he should be surprised to see a bear at a gas station, but he is. The bear's name is Henry, which he secretly thinks it's a silly name for an 800-pound animal. He thinks the bear should be named Axel, or Mick, or… something tough. That is, he does until Hugh Reed, the pump owner, opens the door to the two-story cage and moseys in to feed the bear a cookie. Dean decides Henry is an appropriate name as he cranes his head a bit to watch the bear take the cookie with a grumbling sniff that reminds him of Chewbacca. Hugh is a bear himself; hulking, with a grizzled beard like a mountain man. It suits him, Dean thinks. He also thinks Hugh has balls of fucking steel to march his seventy-something year old ass into that cage on a daily basis when Henry looks like would as soon bite off Hugh's hand as he would devour a box of Oreos.

Thing is, Henry does no such thing and in fact lets that long tongue of his loll out to lick the crumbs from Hugh's palms. "Balls of fucking steel," Dean mutters, grudgingly impressed.

"I doubt that that man has _'balls of steel'_," says Castiel, appearing suddenly beside him. "It would not be conducive to reproduction."

Dean didn't hear Cas walk up. That bothers him. He turns slightly and watches as Castiel takes a bite out of a Twinkie, looking ruminative for a second before finishing it off in another large bite. He looks like he can't decide whether or not he likes it. Dean doesn't blame him.

"That shit will kill you," he says in reply, rolling his eyes and trying not to look as Cas sucks the crème off of one finger with a long pull from knuckle to tip. Dean feels a bit like a lecher even thinking the action lewd but there he is, watching slightly dumbfounded as Cas repeats the action four more times, unaware of the blatant innuendo. "Um, do you want a napkin or anything?" Dean asks, irritated by how uncomfortable watching Cas has made him.

Castiel shakes his head and looks over his shoulder as Sam comes walking up with two coffees. Dean takes the offered coffee and pops the lid to check: double cream, double sugar. Sam rolls his eyes, taking a careful sip from his own – black – and turns slightly to watch Hugh exit Henry's cage.

"Alright Cas," says Dean, his expression hardening as he catches Castiel's eye and holds it, "so now would be the time to tell us why you had us drive all the way out to the boonies, to see some old guy's pet bear."

"This is Oregon, Dean, not the 'boonies', Dean," Castiel says in reply, though his features are settled into an expression of utmost gravity. "I wanted to tell you and Sam that we must go on a trip across the country to visit the world's largest chocolate moose," he continues without preamble.

Dean spits out a mouthful of coffee... right onto Sam's shirt. Sam lets out an undignified sputter, which Dean doesn't hear. He's too busy staring at Cas like he's just grown a pair of rabbit ears. Something that might be annoyance passes over him as he watches Cas reach into his pocket and pull out a wad of napkins, which he then hands to Sam, but Dean's too stunned to acknowledge it. He waits for an answer. A few seconds of stunned silence pass, before Dean asks, "What?"

"We must go on… I believe you would call it a 'road trip', to see the world's largest chocolate moose." When Dean doesn't reply, Castiel adds, "It's in Maine."

Behind Castiel, Sam, who had been dabbing violently at the coffee stain on his shirt, stops suddenly and looks up quickly, as if gauging Dean's reaction. Dean gives his brother a significant look, but strangely, Sam only looks away and resumes dabbing a sopping napkin at his shirt, distractedly.

"Oh this is rich," mutters Dean. He looks closely at the angel, but there is no guile in Castiel's eyes. "Why do _we_ have to go on this road trip with you?" he asks. "Can't you just 'poof' there and call us when you're done?"

"The battle at Four Corners drained much of my power," Castiel says, finally breaking Dean's gaze and looking away, "I cannot travel as I used to. Until I am back to full strength, I am stuck using your human mode of transport." He drops his eyes to the Impala, meaningfully.

Sam gives up on his shirt. "So did," Sam asks, before pausing to looks at Dean, "you... you know?" At Castiel's blank look, Sam asks, "Did you fall? Are you… human now?|"

Castiel shakes his head. "No, I retain my Grace." he replies. "You could say that I need to 'recharge my battery.'"

"Well that's great, Cas," Dean says sarcastically, "I'll pay for your bus ticket and you can recharge on the way. Thanks, but no thanks." He turns away from Castiel when he feels a hand on his elbow. A jolt travels up his arm to his shoulder, making his fingers twitch before he can stop them. "_What_?" he grinds out.

"God has commanded me to go," says Castiel seriously, as if that should explain everything. In a way, Dean supposes it does. He sees Sam swing around to look at him, though his expression isn't so much incredulous as it is curious.

"Really Cas, _God_ told you to go and see the biggest chocolate moose in the world?" says Dean, not bothering to keep the disbelief from his tone.

"Yes," says Castiel, dropping his hand, "it's in Scarborough."

"Right, Scarborough. Well ain't that just _wicked_ good."

"There is nothing wicked about chocolate or moose."

"Look, just because you heard a voice--"

"God."

"--doesn't mean that we have to go traipsing across the country -"

"Dean," says Sam, speaking up, trying to cut across his brother's words.

"--because you think that you heard _God_ tell you to take a stupid road trip. And even if you—"

"_Dean._"

"--really did hear God speak to you, that doesn't mean that we have to--"

"DEAN!" Sam bellows, loudly enough that his voice carries across the parking lot drawing a few curious looks from some of the bystanders loitering by Henry's cage. In the cage, Henry vocalizes his displeasure with a rumbly grumble.

"_What_, Sam?" acknowledges Dean finally, exasperation clearly stitched into his tone.

"I think we should go."

"See Cas – wait, what? Excuse me?" says Dean, rounding on his brother. "What do you mean, 'we should go'?"

"I think he wants to see the chocolate moose, Dean," says Castiel, glancing at Sam, "I hear it's very life-like."

"So you guys have talked?" says Dean, suddenly suspicious. From the guilty look that Sam gives Castiel and Castiel's affirmative nod, he knows he's right.

"Well, sorta," hedges Sam. "I just think, given the circumstances and everything that has happened, it couldn't hurt."

"So you _have_ talked." Dean's voice is low, dangerous, and _quiet_. Sam takes a step back. Castiel, however, moves forward into his personal space.

"This is as much for me as it is for you," he says, his face too close, as he fixes Dean with a stare that burns him. Then, he places his hand on Dean's arm again. "Please Dean, my Father wishes for me to go to Maine and you are the only one I trust to bring me there."

Dean's resolve wavers. He curses and yanks his arm from Cas' grip. The air is charged; they're waiting for his answer. "Fine," he concedes at last, giving the Impala a critical once-over. "I've gotta put some air in her tires, get some supplies and we'll head out in 15 minutes."

Sam releases a sigh of relief and wanders over to Henry's cage, clearly wishing to avoid any further interaction with his brother right then. Sam always was the smart one. Castiel lingers, watching Dean intently for a minute or so as Dean frowns down into his coffee, his brow creased in frustration. Castiel gives him a smile that looks out of place alongside the discontented expression Dean's wearing. "Thank you," he says.

"Whatever Cas," Dean replies with forced nonchalance, unable to decide how or if he should accept the smile or the thanks. "Just know that if my baby breaks down along the way, God owes me a new car."


	3. Chapter Three: The San Diego Zoo

**The Polar Bear Exhibit, The San Diego Zoo, San Diego, CA – 1:01PM, Pacific Standard Time**

_Total miles traveled: 1,022 _

Dean wonders what's so goddamn interesting about polar bears. He can't see their appeal; sure they're big, and white, and probably some of the fiercest creatures this side of the Arctic – but to him they're just boring.

One of them – a big male – suddenly glides into the water after a fish that one of the keepers tossed into the pen. Dean hangs back, leaning against the outside wall of the enclosure with a slight look of disapproval, as Castiel presses his face right up against the glass – right against it, there's kids' fingerprints _all_ over the thing and while Dean has been covered in a fair amount of disgusting crap in his life, he knows the hands of children are some of the filthiest things on earth – and stares intently at the polar bear as if he is communicating with it.

Which, Dean supposes, is entirely possible.

He pushes away from the wall when he sees Sam duck out of the men's bathroom. He sidles up to his brother with a lazy slouch, hands in his pocket, every line of his body screaming discontent. Sam sighs and gives him a look that tells him he's being a child.

Yeah, well, so fucking _what_?

"Can you tell me again why we're here, Sammy?" Dean asks, voice tense, teeth tight.

Sam shrugs, avoiding his gaze as he pats down his pockets as if looking for loose change. He digs out fifty cents and reaches across Dean to drop it into the little machine that spits out half-melted candy for money. Dean looks at the small pile of candy in Sam's hand and considers it, but he's not a big fan of Runts. Besides, he'd given his last bit of change and a few dollars to Cas, who still hadn't grasped the concept of paying for food.

_'That hotdog better have been fucking delicious,'_ Dean mutters, watching critically as Sam palms the candy all in one go, leaving his hand sticky with yellow and orange residue.

"What?" asks Sam around a mouthful of Runts. Since when did Sam like candy so much? The world had really been turned on its ear, if the Winchesters spending the day at the zoo was any indication. A man walking by with his kid tosses a neatly folded newspaper into the trashcan next to Dean, missing it. He keeps walking. Dean glances at the date on the paper and reads: _'January 13th, 2010'_ under the headline: "State Dept. checking reports of 3 U.S. deaths in Haiti."

Dean sighs and wonders if the pandas are awake. Now those are cool animals, pandas, way better than polar bears. "I said: what the hell are we doin' here, Sammy? It's been about two weeks since the showdown. That's two weeks we could've been chasing down strays and sending them back to the Hell – or Heaven. The world's still standin', as far as I can tell, and we're at the zoo?" Dean gestures expansively, looks away, his jaw a hard line. "There's gotta be _somethin'_ still out there."

_For us._ He doesn't say it, doesn't need to, they both know. They both hope it's true. What are the Winchesters without hunting, after all?

"Dean," says Castiel, appearing at his side suddenly, so close his shoulder is touching his. "I think we should go see the pandas now." He says it sagely, as if he's given it due consideration and has weighed out the pros and cons.

For the first time that day, Dean manages a smile.


	4. Chapter Four: Shop of Madame Moustache

**Shop of Madame Mustache, Tombstone: The Town to Tough to Die, Tombstone, AZ – 11:00 AM, Mountain Standard Time**

_Total miles traveled: 1,499_

"Come on Sam, try on the slinky red one." Dean grins at his brother, smirking as he tips his black cowboy hat at him. "It'll look good on ya, little lady."

Sam grits his teeth and eyes the costumes lining the racks of Madame Mustache dubiously. He reaches out to touch a peacock green feather hanging off of one of the dresses and wrinkles his nose. "First of all," he says, "no. Second of all, _hell_ no."

"I doubt there is a costume in here big enough for Sam to wear," pipes in Cas from across the room, loudly. They both look up to see him wearing a white 10-gallon hat that would have made John Wayne envious. Sam laughs as Dean snickers, and Cas scrunches up his features in confusion, his false mustache and cork-burnt beard stretching across his face comically.

Dean suddenly stops when Cas' brow begins to furrow slightly. He punches Sam in the arm, trying not to look too perturbed. "This was your stupid idea, Sammy, now play along."

Sam throws up his arms in exasperation. "Nothing in here is going to fit me, Dean. Let's just go."

Dean looks about to protest, but Cas chimes in again. "Perhaps it is for the best, Dean," he says in a somber tone. "Your brother is very fat."

The grin that suddenly splits Dean's face looks like it hurts him it's so wide. Giggles begin to seep out from between his teeth.

"Wait, Cas," Sam protests, shock evident in his voice. "W-what did you just say?" Dean watches Sam struggle between Bitch Face Five and Bitch Face Six, as if he were deciding how much he should dial it up. "I'm not 'fat'," he huffs – actually huffs! "I'm just, well, large."

"'Large' is to be more than average size, synonymous with fat," replies Castiel matter-of-factly. He clicks the fake gun he's been given thoughtfully, oblivious to the sputter of indignation from Sam.

"Well, er, you know," says Sam, momentarily sidelined by Castiel's practical explanation. "It's not the same thing," he finishes inelegantly. He looks to Dean for validation, but Dean just holds up his hands.

"Whoa, keep me out of this," he says around a grin. Sam settles on Bitch Face Six. Dean thinks Cas is lucky – Bitch Face Five is nasty business.

"Your brother, however, could fit into a dress easily," continues Castiel as if there was no interruption. He comes to stand before Dean and scrutinizes him thoroughly, eyes tracing every dip and curve from head to toe. Dean looks stares back, though he's slightly unnerved by the open, honest perusal. " In fact," says Cas, picking up the feathered emerald green dress that Sam had been looking at earlier, "this one would suit him quite nicely." Dean begins to protest, but Cas is holding the material up to his face, the back of his hand flush to his cheek. "It would bring out the color of his eyes."

Dean forgets what he was going to say as confusion, and something close to embarrassment, settles over him.

"I could likely fit into this one," Castiel continues, unperturbed by Dean's expression. He holds up a matriarchal looking gown, floor-length and velvet, with an eyelet lace ruff. "But you, Sam," serious, all business, "could not wear any of these."

Bitch Face Six begins to slide into Bitch Face Five.


	5. Chapter 5: Roswell, New Mexico

**Room 408, Inn of the Four Sons, Roswell, NM– 8:17 AM, Central Standard Time**

_Total miles traveled: 1,995_

Dean wakes up at 8:17 AM and immediately panics. His feet are on the floor, his gun in hand, before the sleep has fully cleared his eyes. When it does and he remembers where he is something drains from him so quickly that his legs grow weak beneath him. He sags back onto the bed with something that sounds like a strangled sob.

The nightmare is always the same: He is burning, his arms wrapped around something he knows he can't let go of. If he does, the world would fall away, _his_ world would fall away.

Dean always wakes up the same way, ever since the showdown in Four Points. The shitty thing is he can't remember exactly _what_ happened, and that seems like a big slap in the face. It was the fucking showdown of the goddamn Apocalypse for chrissake, and he can't remember a single detail.

Except...he can, just one: the sound of an urgent voice, warped and muddy like it was layered atop several others, calling his name. _Dean, please wake up._

The memory of that voice is the only thing that can snap him out of his nightmare.

Dean glances at the clock on the nightstand. He stares at it for a full minute before he realizes, belatedly, that he has slept in. Nobody had woken him up like he'd asked… and that just irritates the piss out of him. Sam (he assumes it's Sam because Castiel still hasn't learned how to use the remote) left the television on the weather channel. Why that shit interests him, Dean will never understand. The forecaster's voice is a garbled, low hum from the other side of the room. Dean glances at the TV and the smiling sun with tells him it's going to be a nice sunny Sunday afternoon. He checks the ticker running at the bottom and sees that it's January 24th – they've been on the road with Cas for two weeks now.

He staggers upright once again and stretches, joints creaking, spine popping like a row of caps from a cap gun. Shit, he's gotten older and never realized it. He goes straight to the restroom, takes a piss that feels like it lasts forever. He braces a hand on the wall and realizes that he's never had the time to acknowledge that he's growing older. Now, though, on this stupid road trip that Castiel insists they take, he's got nothing but buckets of hours and minutes to fill with such thoughts and speculations.

Dean hates time, he decides. It leaves him too much room to think, to wonder...to hope.

He washes up, cold water shocking his mind into full awareness, and decides it's about time he gets some fucking answers.

**Parking Lot, Inn of the Four Sons, Roswell, NM - 8:25 AM, Central Standard Time**

Cas and Sam are nowhere to be found, which right away worries Dean. There's a twinge in his stomach, an ulcer forming perhaps, which Dean thinks is just goddamn _dandy_ given that he managed to go to Hell and back without so much as a paper cut let alone a hole in his stomach. His worry continues to mount as he pulls on his jacket – he's been wearing John's lately, something just feels right about it – and heads out of his room.

The New Mexico air is warm and dry on his face – not yet hot, just the same as the air had been in Arizona. He knows he'll hate it by midday, but for now, it's nice enough.

He makes his way over to the Impala, filthy with dust from their drive through the desert clime. Somebody's scrawled 'Wash Me' on the windshield, to which Dean immediately takes offense. He looks around accusingly, as if the culprit might still be there, but the parking lot is empty save for a grackle that is staring at him expectantly.

Dean kicks some gravel toward the bird, which only causes it to hop back a few inches and resume staring. Dean ignores it, peering instead into the back window of the Impala, looking to see if Cas had retreated to the backseat to escape Sam's snoring.

The first time he'd done it, Dean had charged out of the room in the middle of the night calling his name, frantic that something had snatched him from under their noses, or that he'd gone back to Heaven. That was his real fear – one he didn't share with anyone else.

When he'd discovered Cas in the car, curled up like a kitten in the backseat, he'd felt immediately foolish… and _furious_. He'd woken him up, banging on the hood like a madman, ranting and yelling about stupid, inconsiderate angels. Cas had simply rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and explained that Sam's, 'grizzly bear snores' had kept him awake so he'd retreated to Impala instead.

Thing is, Cas isn't in the backseat. It's empty, no angel in sight. He curls his hand into a fist as an irrational thought crosses his mind: Sam and Cas have gone off together, probably somewhere stupid like a stupid Alien Museum, and left him alone.

The thought makes Dean's stomach clench and anger ripple through him, though if he thinks about it too long the reasons for his anger become vague and confusing.

He chooses not to dwell any longer on it, instead whirls on his heel, jamming one hand into the pocket of his jeans to dig out his cell phone. He's stormed a few feet away from the Impala, stabbing the first few digits of Sam's number into keypad angrily, when he hears the low murmur of voices. He looks up… and that's when he sees them.

Sam and Castiel are sitting side by side at a picnic table in a small grassy square, maybe a little bigger than a walk-in closet, that's been set aside by the motel as a designated "smoking" area. His brother and Cas aren't pushed right up next to each other – oddly, this relieves him – but Castiel is watching Sam very closely. Oddly, his feelings on that could _not_ be considered relief… not in the slightest. In fact, Dean found the whole scene goddamn _aggravating. _

He walks towards them, intending to interrupt this little 'moment' and demand the answers he knows he's due, but he stops mid-step, faltering when he sees what they are actually doing.

Sam and Cas are eating oranges. And Sam is smiling; smiling in a way that Dean hasn't seen him smile in too fucking long. It's the way Sam used to smile, or at least close to it. The easy smile he used to see before Dean had been ripped apart by hellhounds and sent to the Pit.

Sam is showing Castiel how to peel and eat the orange fruit. Cas, with his usual somber manner, is peeling the skin of his orange off carefully, like it's something too precious to just rip into. He gets all of the peel off and looks to Sam, his expression questioning and focused, intense – it makes Dean want to look away. Sam splits his orange open into two halves. Cas follows suit. Dean takes another step closer as Castiel shoves a whole half of an orange into his mouth.

Cas bites down; juices dribble down his chin, sticky and glistening in the sunlight. Dean expects him to spit out a mouthful of half-chewed fruit but is again stopped in his tracks when an expression of utter rapture and delight flashes across Castiel's features. Sam smiles, laughing now as he mimics Cas.

The sound is open and free in the morning air. It sounds like new beginnings.

Dean decides that he doesn't need his answers today and leaves his brother and Cas to their moment.

Later Castiel, hands smelling like oranges, hands Dean a small alien-shaped car freshener. Dean scoffs at it, but hangs it from the Impala's rearview mirror.


End file.
